Certainly, when Conrad Lagrange fled so precipitately from Louise Taine,
that afternoon, he had no thought that the trivial incident was to mark
the beginning of a new era in his life; or that it would work out in the
life of his dearest friend such far reaching results. His only purpose was
to escape an hour of the frothy vaporings of the poor, young creature who
believed herself so interested in art and letters, and who succeeded so
admirably in expressing the spirit of her environment and training.

With his pipe and book, the novelist hid himself in the rose garden;
finding a seat on the ground, in an angle of the studio wall and the
Ragged Robin hedge, where any one entering the enclosure would be least
likely to observe him. Czar, heartily approving of his master's action,
stretched himself comfortably under the nearest rose-bush, and waited
further developments.

Presently, the novelist heard his friend, with Mrs. Taine, come from the
house and enter the studio. For a moment, he entertained the uncomfortable
fear that the artist, in a spirit of sheer boyish fun that so often moved
him, would bring Mrs. Taine to the garden. But the moment passed, and the
novelist,--mentally blessing the young man for his forbearance,--with a
chuckle of satisfaction, lighted his pipe and opened his book. Scarcely
had he found his place in the pages, however, when he was again
interrupted--this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor's violin.
Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses,
with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit that
called from the depths of the fragrant orange grove.

The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above his
head dropped their lovely petals down upon him. The warm, slanting rays of
the afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches,